


Finding

by peasantswhy



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dead People, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Past Character Death, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/pseuds/peasantswhy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Furiosa rides into the Wasteland to bring Angharad and Nux back to be buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding

Sand tastes like blood to her, like her own body choking her as she bleeds out. It cloys the back of her throat, burying back and grinding against her molars, pricking against all the soft parts of her mouth. It feels too close, too close to the sensation of _losing_ sensation, the little sparks of pain as she blacks out for what might be forever. She swallows compulsively, but it only sticks and scratches and she dry heaves into the bandana covering her face. _Not now,_ she thinks, blinking her watering eyes, and she steels her jaw against the grit.

Taking a bike out this late at night is dangerous, she knows. The desert carries information faster than wind, and news of Immortan Joe’s death at the hand of a woman will carry far. It will not be long before there will be one raiding party, then two, then ten, then how many more? She should be back at the Citadel, cementing her power, resting and letting the wounds in her side heal before they have to fight for their lives once more.

But here she is, humming along the expanse under a vast swath of stars, her side just hours ago stitched and scabbed. This, in the calm before the storm, will be her only chance.

The sand digs into sharp lines in the creases where bike meets flesh, burrowing into the joints. She ignores it, knowing that callouses will rise up soon enough. It’s been a long time since she’s truly ridden a bike for longer than a few hours, but not that long. The low ache in her side is more worrying— she did not know it was possible to feel her insides slip against each other so. The one higher up, where the Fool— _Max, his name is Max_ — had pierced her side, hurts with each breath, feels crusted and cracked inside her. The one lower doesn’t bother her as much, so long as she isn’t walking. She grimaces— this will be difficult.

 

It had been Capable that convinced her, with the look of slow, dawning horror in her face as she gazed up at the Warpups. She said nothing, and if it had been quiet enough for Furiosa to hear she doubted she would have heard anything at all from her. Only her hands, clutched at her throat around the Vuvalini shawl, and her wide, trembling eyes said anything. Her grief was immense, sucking all of the air out of the sky and condensing it in itself. Furiosa could almost feel it dripping off her, there at the other edge of the platform. It pooled at her feet, dribbled in the grain of the wood until Furiosa felt like she was standing ankle-deep in it. One tear broke out of her eyes, and Furiosa saw her throat work against her shawl. Of course it would be Capable who felt the full force of their grief first, not just for her lost warboy but for Angharad, for her baby, for all they had seen and experienced and lost. The others were still swept up in the giddy high of victory, of the adrenalin rush. Cheedo was shrieking with laughter, and even Toast and the Dag were giggling and smiling next to the beaming Vuvalini. But Capable only stood and swayed. She was upright, but only barely. The grief was going to crush her before long.

Furiosa limped to her side, and placed her good hand on her elbow. Capable flinched like she’d been struck, and it was half a second before her eyes comprehended who stood next to her. “I’ll find them.” Furiosa said. “I’ll find them and bring them back to us.” Capable’s eyes filled, and she shook violently, but she nodded in agreement before looking back up at the warpups crowding the ledge.

 

And so it is Furiosa finds herself astride a Vuvalini bike, a sidecar bumping along next to her. The bike is difficult to maneuver with only one hand, the other metal one having been lost with half of Immortan’s face. She supposes it’s a small price to pay, and she can always make a new one. A grim smile flits around her mouth as she thinks that Immortan cannot do the same. She leans the couple inches of her forearm against the handle, hunched over the purring engine and the sand hissing beneath her wheels.

The wasteland seems to stretch, and Furiosa with it. Her ribs expand and tighten, breathe in and out. The wind is low, and a sort of quiet settles itself around her shoulder and side where the harness used to sit. _In, out, in again._ Her body finds its rhythm, and as it does, so too it finds the parts of her that ache with grief.

Angharad’s face rises behind her eyes, golden-tinged and shining. It flashes between the hardness in her gaze, the fiery determination in her spine and the incandescent smile, the brightness she seemed to gush like water. Both were completely and utterly her, both were the parts of her nature that Furiosa loves—loved? Was it “loved” now, with her gone? Furiosa chokes at the thought. Her heart suddenly feels barbed, and it is this feeling of sharp hooks in her that tell her no, it is still _loves_ after all, and the fact that Angharad is dead will not change that.

 

She didn’t love her, not at first. She didn’t love anyone, only the glimmering memory of her mother and the faint hope that somewhere, way out past the horizon, there was a place with green things and hands that didn’t hurt people. Even these were buried deep, and were only brought up again in secrecy. Angharad wore her loves and hates like clothing, like armor. She shored herself up, like the citadel itself, her heart and whatever it felt keeping her warm. She loved the fellow wives, loved Miss Giddy, loved her future baby. And, in turn, after long stretches of cold and mistrust, she loved Furiosa. But Furiosa didn’t love anyone, not even the wives. She carried only cold hatred, like the chill of her metal arm next to her. She hated Immortan Joe, and taking these women away from him would be the deepest blow she could inflict, the ultimate revenge for killing her mother. It wasn’t until Angharad, delicately climbing out of the Rig with her swollen belly, joked that maybe she would name her baby Furiosa after the woman who would liberate them. It hit Furiosa like a kick to the gut, and then she knew that there was a small space in her hatred that had been hollowed out, and now Angharad lived there.

 

And now it is inhabited by this too-bright specter, this splendid, ephemeral Angharad, and the slow throbbing of her absence. Furiosa doesn’t know where she will find her body, their bodies. She will bring Nux back, for Capable. And perhaps for herself, too. The room Angharad made in Furiosa’s side seems to have left Furiosa porous to fondness, and a flash of Nux’s blue eyes, heady with the feel of Capable’s soft head tucked against his scarred chest, crosses her mind. He had a good heart, the kind that threw itself as easily into love as it did the sandstorm. How Capable had thrown herself equally hard into loving this boy Furiosa didn’t know, but, strangely enough, she admires the both of them for it.

The Vuvalini will have to stay where they have fallen. She cannot afford to wander in search of the four who now lie scattered along the road. Nux and Angharad she will return to the girls, but the Vuvalini understand that there is too much ground to cover, too much risk. Besides, had she not mourned without a body to weep over before? Valkyrie, the Keeper of the Seeds, and the others would fade next to each other, softly sighing away until they were bones, just as her mother had. Furiosa swallows at the lump rising in her throat. _It doesn’t matter,_ she thinks, _they will rest just as well in the desert as anywhere else._

She has an idea of where to start for Nux, but she doesn’t have a clue about Angharad. Her body hadn’t been in the Gigahorse, which Furiosa would have expected. And her baby? Is it still in her womb, or had it been lost along the way? Furiosa grits her teeth against the image of a small, bloody body smashed against the boulders of the canyon.

And would she have named it Furiosa? The question twists low in her gut. She takes a slow breath through the bandana, feeling the chill of the night cold in her lungs. Maybe. Maybe she would have.

The canyon begins to rise in the distance, a charcoal line smudging the horizon. She slows down, careful of any eyes that still might be out there, and shifts her shoulders to remind herself of the rifle she has strapped there. So far there isn’t any movement, no answering engines roaring across the sand. There’s only the still rock, the still sky, the still—she freezes, slamming on the breaks and cutting the engine as quickly as she can.

There is something moving, something coming towards her. Her heart pounds in her ears and she smoothly lifts the rifle from its casing with one hand, settling it against her shoulder. She lays it against the flat of her stump forearm, the barrel braced in the crook of her elbow and the butt slammed into the hollow of her shoulder. She stares down the sights.

A shuffling figure, dragging a darkened lump on a makeshift sled, is walking toward her. There’s no moon out tonight, and the figure is only a sooty grey against the sand, but there’s no mistaking that it is a person. No doubt it has seen her, but it continues, step after labored step, in her direction. Furiosa quickly judges the distance—it can’t be more than a mile away. She thinks—this could be a simple scavenger, just some wanderer trying to scrape up what’s viable of Immortan Joe’s war horde. But then, why the sled? Even scavengers travel light, and no one in their right minds is out this late at night.

The figure keeps moving. About half a mile away, she judges. Soon it will be here. She dismounts from the bike, confrontation inevitable. Furiosa knows that a fight against one is always better than a fight against one and their friends, and she doesn’t want to be near the bike incase this one decides to forgo the fight and steal the bike while she’s down. However, if this person is from the Citadel, a Wretched on a souvenir hunt, maybe she can recruit them to help her with the bodies. In any case, she would have to take him or her back.

She keeps the rifle in her hand as she strides across the sand, walking quickly. Her side protests, but she shoves the pain down.The figure doesn’t seem to be armed, but looks are deceiving and in the wasteland deception can be your best weapon. She’s close enough that she can watch the figure’s arms, notice the tell-tale twitch of a hand reaching for a knife. But there are no twitches, no sudden movements. Only the _sshup sshup sshup_ of the sled sliding against the sand, and the bowed back of—Furiosa stops.

“Max?” His name is strange in her mouth.

He doesn’t answer, only keeps walking. Furiosa is close enough that she can see his legs shaking, see that his mind is somewhere he can’t hear her. She’s close now, if she reaches out her arm she can almost—she hears his breath leave him in a _whuhh_ and she rushes forward, drops to her knees just quick enough to catch him as he collapses.

He’s heavy in her arms, gritty and sticky with sweat. Something strange is wrapped around his chest—a bandage? But no, there is something inside it—her hand pulls away bloody, and she sees that it is a _sling,_ the _baby_ is inside that sling, Angharad’s _dead child_ —she pulls back with a strangled cry, scrambling away from him. Max slumps to the ground, clutching the child to his chest, his eyes glassy and wild. He is shuddering, almost convulsing, his hands kneading the baby through the bloody sling. His mouth works, his throat swallowing empty air as his red-rimmed eyes dart around the sky. Furiosa looks at him, sees the strong knot of the sling, sees the baby nestled against Max’s chest, sees how his hands support its lifeless head, and thinks, _Oh._

For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Max still trembles in the sand, still somewhere far away. She reaches out a hand, tentative, and brushes the soft tufts of his hair. She doesn’t know how to do this, but she remembers Angharad, remembers how she would hold the girls after a long night, how she would give them five kind, caressing touches for every evil one Joe gave them. Furiosa lets her fingers sink into his short hair. She is not delicate like Angharad, not soft. She doesn’t think she can do it her way. But her arms are firm, despite the blood caking them, despite the grief excavating her bones. She shifts closer, draws Max up against her until his chin is digging into her shoulder and the dead child is pressed between them. She wraps her arms around them both and holds them tight.

 

The stars inch across the sky. Max’s mind has been gone for a long time. Furiosa doesn’t move but for the slow circles she traces into Max’s spine with her good hand. She vaguely remembers her mother doing this to help her sleep, back when flowers grew outside her window. Now, her body aches with his weight, with the weight of the dead. The trembling had slowed, then disappeared a long time ago. Still, even with her arms beginning to scream from the effort of holding him up, and his chin bruising her shoulder, she would not move for the world. Her heart recognizes now when people move in. She might not love him, not in the way she loves the Vuvalini, or the girls, or Angharad, but there is something else. She feels they are like sand, shifting together and apart, but still the same. She does not know if there is a name for what that is.

Max takes a deep breath, holds it for a beat, and breathes out. He has returned. He lifts his head with a grunt, and when he looks at her he looks with clarity. She drops her arms, but her palm rests on his knee. His hands still wrap around the baby, but lightly now, gently.

“I found them.” His voice is gravelly in the silence. He nods toward the sled, built ramshackle out of the hood of the War Rig. Misshapen lumps rest under a blanket. Angharad and Nux. But they are piled too high? Realization kicks the breath right out of her, and she struggles on all fours to the sled, rips the shroud off. Angharad and Nux, yes, but Valkyrie, The Keeper of the Seeds—they are all here, every one, _they are all here_ —she gags, sobs splitting up her throat, and a cry rips out of her, her quaking fingertips brushing Valkyrie’s thick black hair away from her mangled face. Her keening lament drags up her body, scraping away at her throat, her lungs, down to the meat inside her ribs, even to her very bones. She is vaguely aware of Max’s rough hard clasping the back of her neck and shoving her face into his chest—a part of her acknowledges _we need to be quiet_ but apparently it is now her turn to go away, to drown in her grief, in her relief that her people will not rot in the sun so far away from her. Her arms scrabble for purchase against Max, her hand clutching at the leather of his jacket as her bad arm hooks around his neck. She buries her face in his neck, bites down on him to keep her screams from echoing across the rock. He flinches at her teeth, but only presses his forehead against her skin in return. His arms are just as strong around her as hers had been around him; he keeps them together when her own grow weak as the sadness leeches out of her. The stars wheel above them, crawling out the time.

She takes a breath in, holds it, and lets it out. She returns now, but she keeps her eyes closed against Max’s warm skin. “I had a bike.” She hears him say. “Popped a tire running over your broken War Rig.”

She nods. “I have a bike. Over there. I have a sidecar.” She feels him nod, the scruff on his chin scraping her cheek.

He stands and pulls her up with one arm, the other resting against the baby’s back. Furiosa feels feeble, like the blood has drained out of her a second time.

She looks at the bundle against Max and rests her good hand on top of his. “Was it a boy, or girl?” She whispers.

“A boy.” He replies, his voice strained and breaking.

That hurts. No Furiosa, then.

“Will you name him?” She asks.

A high whine escapes his teeth, and his eyes fill with tears again, and he is looking away. He doesn’t answer, only takes the cable attached to the sled and begins to pull. Furiosa tosses the rifle on the sled, grabs the other end of the cable and hefts it over her shoulder. They pull together.

They make short time, and soon they reach the bike. The sidecar is big enough to tie most of the bodies in, and the last one they carefully strap on the front of the car. The grey of the morning is coming, and the stars are low in the sky. A deep silence blankets their work, and Furiosa does not marvel at how well Max knows how to work beside her, filling the space her lost arm has left as if he were of her own bones.

The Vuvalini are brutalized, killed in battle. Furiosa cringes as arms, broken out of sockets, flop lazily against exposed, crushed ribs. Valkyrie had been run over, her neck snapped back, and now her crushed head lolls to the side. Angharad’s belly was sliced open, and now Furiosa must gently push her spilling intestines back inside her body. Bile rises in her throat to think of the indignity of her last moments, how they cut her open like fruit.

But even in their brokenness, pieces of who they were remain. Nux, despite his burned skin, has a soft, almost regretful smile. He lies curled over the tiny windshield of the car, his arm draped over his head like a sleeping child. The Keeper of Seeds looks thoroughly pleased with herself, her hands folded neatly on her lap as she sits in the sidecar. And Angharad, oh Angharad. Her brow is furrowed like rock, and Furiosa knows she died with steel in her veins. She places Angharad in the Keeper of Seeds’ lap, her legs slung over Valkyrie’s thighs.

The bodies secure, Furiosa swings her leg over the seat, settling in. The rifle sits easy in the sidecar, sticking upright like a flag. Max stands in front of her, looking down at the baby in his arms. Carefully, he adjusts the sling until the baby is nuzzled against his back. He wraps another bolt of cloth around himself and the child, making it tight. Then he slips behind Furiosa, and circling his arms around her. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and starts the engine. The thunder from it startles her after so long a silence, but Max presses a flat hand against her stomach, calming her. She turns the bike around, and speeds back toward the Citadel.

The tacky blood still smeared on her chills her skin, and the bodies jostle in their seats. Wheels eat up the distance between them and the dark pillars of the citadel. Max lays his cheek down where her neck meets her shoulder, covering the brand scar, and this feels like the closest thing to peace she’s felt in a long time.

She leans into the slow warmth at her back, and the grey light rises behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, suuuuuuppppeeerrr new at this. notes are always appreciated!!


End file.
